When Tomorrow Comes
by principessar
Summary: A young girl from the mid-20th century somehow finds her way into the world of Les Misérables and meets some of the characters. An avid reader, she already knows the story. If she gets involved in the students' revolution, can she change how it ends? Ships: Marius/Cosette, one-sided Eponine/Marius, also one-sided Grantaire/Enjolras, and eventual Enjolras/OC
1. Chapter 1

AN : Hello everyone :) This is my first LM fic. I'm using the stage production as my primary canon (and mainly using the 25th anniversary concert for visual cues and personal descriptions) but also incorporating some details from the book and the 2012 movie. Hope you enjoy – reviews are welcome :)

Chapter 1

It was a Saturday in the late spring of 1949, a day like any other, when Annette Szekely stepped out of her small, Parisian flat for a walk. The day was hot and humid, already like summer, so the young woman had dressed lightly – a pink dress with white polka dots and a pair of sandals. She took only a small handbag, no hat or sweater; she wasn't planning to be out long. She'd wander for an hour or two, maybe sit down by the river for a while or go to the park. On sunny days like today Annette liked being outside. Often she'd take a book with her, but on this afternoon she hadn't.

A few paces took her past the newspaper kiosk, a few more past her closest boulangerie, and then the tram stop. For a few minutes, Annette gazed absentmindedly into the shop windows she was passing. For a second, she stopped to admire a dress. Someone had tied up a dog outside the _bar-tabac_ at the corner; after a moment's hesitation, the girl bent down to say hello, letting the dog lick her hand. Then she was off again, around another corner. She could have kept going straight, she supposed – she'd get to the center of town faster that way, but as she'd wanted to explore…

Turning the corner, however, she heard herself gasp in surprise. Somehow, she'd turned onto a narrow street she'd never seen before, where old, rickety, wooden buildings leaned almost dangerously over cobblestones. The street she'd just left had been normally paved, as this one was supposed to be, in fact. It wasn't as if she'd never turned the corner here before. Every time she'd previously done so, though, it had looked not unlike her own street: filled with stucco residential buildings four and five-stories high, the grocer's two or three doors down, and in the distance, an elementary school. Was it possible to turn a corner she must have turned at least hundreds, if not thousands of times, and to find herself on a wholly new and unfamiliar street?

Even stranger, however, were all the people filling it. They looked extremely poor, physically dirty, some of them with ragged, patched clothing. What's more, what they were wearing all looked like it came from another era – the distant past. Women wore long skirts, heavy shoes. Their hair was tied up in buns on their heads or down in braids, sometimes hidden under floppy cotton bonnets. Some were carrying buckets of water, others dragging along equally filthy, equally strangely-dressed children. While Annette wouldn't have characterized her neighborhood as anything other than solidly working class, she'd never seen people here before whose situation looked so dire. Besides, despite certain depreciating comments she could remember her father making in his thick Hungarian accent, years ago, almost in another life, Annette was pretty sure that nowadays everyone in Paris had running water, and they had at least a fair idea of what a bath or a shower was for.

_Nowadays … _the girl repeated this word in her mind. Her heart seemed to skip a beat. _No, that can't be. Are they filming a picture in Paris today?_ It was a conscious effort to force an ironic smile. _Wish I'd seen the notice. I wonder if they'd take me as an extra! _But no cameras were rolling, no camera crews could be seen anywhere, and after a moment, Annette noticed that almost all of the people in the street had stopped to stare at her, as if her knee-length dress and short blonde hair was as strange to them as their clothing had been to her.

Without another second's thought, Annette instantly turned on her heel. She'd meant to head right back around the corner, back towards the _tabac _and the dog at the corner, back to the neighborhood she thought she knew so well. When she took the turn, however, the street she had just left was nowhere to be found. Instead, she faced yet another narrow alleyway, again paved with cobblestones. There were fewer people here, but all of them were dressed just as strangely as the ones she had seen a second ago. Here, too, everyone who caught her eye was staring at her.

The girl didn't hesitate. Walking fast, breaking into a run after only a few paces, she sped out of the area, initially trying to find her way back home. Soon, though, she realized that the warren of narrow streets seemed to go on and on. They were all filled with strange, unfamiliar people and landmarks, but she kept running as fast as she could, no longer paying any heed to who and what she passed, only half wondering if each step was taking her further from her own neighborhood, or if something inexplicable had happened and she would never see it again.

She didn't know how long she ran – maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. When she stopped to take a breath, she found herself standing in an evidently nicer part of town, outside the entrance to an elegant, well-maintained park. Iron gates, painted green with gold trim, stood open beside high hedges. Inside, a tree-lined alleyway led towards a small pond or pool, surrounded by benches.

The park itself didn't look very different than those she had seen before. That didn't necessarily mean anything, though. She'd taken a school trip to Versailles once, and they'd spent some time exploring the gardens. These had been carefully tended to look like they had back in the 18th century, and the only thing that Annette could tell distinguished the style from that of her local park was that Versailles's was fancier. Indeed, beginning to stroll – as leisurely as she could manage – down the tree-lined path towards the pool and the benches in this park here, she caught sight of men in waistcoats and women in high-necked dresses, with shawls and buttoned gloves, sitting on blankets in the grass. Not far from them, girls with ribbons tied in bows in their long ringlets and boys with those funny shorts Annette had seen in paintings chased each other in circles. At least these people seemed more engrossed in their conversations or whatever else they were doing; fewer, (though still some), turned to stare at the young woman as she passed.

Finally, reaching the pond, Annette all but flung herself down on a bench. Where was she? What on earth was happening to her? Lifting her eyes, she attempted to force herself to focus on her immediate surroundings, to calm herself if nothing else. Nothing seemed frightening or threatening here, other than the fact that she had no idea where _here_ was. More small children were floating toy boats in the pond; some were skipping rocks.

Not many people were sitting on the other benches around the circle. To one side of her was an elderly man dressed in white. A young girl, perhaps Annette's own age, perhaps a little younger, dressed in black, was sitting next to him. Nearly directly across from them, on the other side of the pool, was a young man, dressed in a waistcoat like the men she'd passed on the way in. He was also about Annette's own age, she supposed, with brown, curly hair and an earnest face. He had a book in his hands that ostensibly he was reading, though he kept stealing glances at the young girl across from him. Neither she nor her father appeared to notice him, though, nor did any of the three notice Annette.

For a second, Annette thought the scene seemed almost familiar. She couldn't remember ever having seen any of these people before, though. Could it be just a sense of déjà-vu? The whole moment had a dream-like quality about it, but if so, it wasn't a dream Annette remembered having had before. Could it have been in something she had read, then? She'd been doing a lot of reading recently, a lot of 19th century _roman-fleuves_ actually, so it might just figure that if she was having some kind of a very lucid dream it might put her in some 19th century landscape. _Was_ she dreaming, though? She remembered clearly enough waking up late this morning, getting up and washing her face, eating a slice of buttered bread and an orange, in her own flat, in 1949. Reaching over, she pinched herself on the arm. Nothing happened, though she supposed if it were an extremely realistic and lucid-seeming dream, pinching her own self in the arm wouldn't do much good in getting out of it.

_Pay attention, Annette._ She shifted her position, looking away from the young woman and the old man and towards the young man on the other bench. He was still gazing at the girl across from him, his eyes full of excitement, his lips unconsciously curved in a smile.

Annette could have laughed. Maybe it was this scene, not the people participating in it, which had seemed so familiar. She'd had boys look at her with ardor like that in their eyes before, after all. Only normal, she supposed, when you were young. She didn't think she was uncommonly attractive, though there'd been a boy or two who had sought to convince her otherwise, remarking on her fair skin, her small form, her bright, blue eyes. Lucien, the delivery boy from her old office, had insisted that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and the nicest, too. About the first thing, Annette had more than her fair share of doubts, and the second was flat out nonsense, but Lucien, for whatever reason, had been persistent.

He'd wanted her to go out with him. She'd accepted, because it sounded like it would be fun. They'd gone to the movies together, then somehow she had wound up accompanying him back to his place. His parents' place, she supposed, though thankfully they were not home. And there, in his cluttered, boyhood bedroom they had made love. It was over a year ago, then; Annette had been very young, just eighteen, if not still seventeen in fact. Perhaps she'd had romantic notions about what her first time would be like, but they had never included glimpses of laundry, stretched out on a line from the balcony, flapping in the breeze, and a snatches of a heated argument from the next flat overheard through the open window. Finally, a baby had started crying in that flat, and Annette couldn't help it – she burst out laughing, and then it was all over. She'd dressed quickly and let herself out the door, and despite the late hour she'd made her way home, deeply embarrassed, not so much by the act than by how ridiculous the situation had turned out to be. That, and she was pretty sure she felt absolutely nothing for Lucien.

The next day, Lucien had tried to catch her eye at work, had tried to speak to her. For her part, Annette had done what she could to avoid him, but he'd eventually cornered her in the stairs. He'd wanted to talk. Nothing about the previous night, but he wanted to see her again. Did she want to go to another picture at the weekend? She'd told him no, and after a few more awkward attempts at conversation, a few more invitations, Lucien had gotten the hint.

Annette supposed she hadn't dealt with Lucien all that nicely, which was what made his initial comment ring so false, all things considered. There was nothing wrong with Lucien, really. He was just a young boy in love, or thought he was, at least. A relationship was out of the question, though. If it went any further, he would start to ask her things, would eventually want to introduce Annette to his parents, and how could Annette tell him she had no parents anymore? How could she tell him everything else?

In fact, Annette had very few friends. She hadn't kept contact with the girls she'd known at the orphanage, after she'd left when she was seventeen. Fantasies of brief affairs aside, she'd realized after Lucien that romantic relationships were just as impossible. So, always an avid reader, she'd really plunged herself into the novels then, figuring that she might as well lose herself in the imaginary lives of other people.

Lost in her recollections, she'd sunk back into the wood of the bench. Now, though, she looked up again, at the pond. Once more, she looked over at the young man. He'd stopped staring at the girl across from him and had returned to his book, but just as Annette glanced at him, he looked up, too. Suddenly, as he saw her, his eyes narrowed, he scrunched up his nose. While Annette might have forgotten how strange it was that everyone she had seen this afternoon was dressed like people from the past, he was evidently as shocked as the people she had seen in the very first street she'd found herself in to see her.

Instinctively, Annette jumped to her feet, off again and running once more, back out through the park's gate, back into the street. She didn't stop at that point; she kept going for several minutes, though soon enough she slowed, her legs beginning to ache with fatigue. Running wasn't doing her any good – that was clear. Once again, she found herself in a wholly unknown street, here too paved with cobblestones. At least this one had fewer people wandering around in it.

Dejectedly, Annette slumped down to sit on a step, carefully avoiding a place where muddy water sloshed from a pipe into the gutter. She ducked her head into her hands, raking her fingers through her hair, bringing them to rest on the back of her neck, fighting off a wave of sudden panic. Whatever charm this dream – or whatever it was – could have brought her so far, it had long worn off. Her heart was pounding fast, and though she was making an effort to try and breathe slowly, in a measured way, her breaths were coming out shallow, ragged, and bile was rising in her throat. _Not just because I've been running, _she told herself, trying to keep her mind clear and rational, at least.

Suddenly, someone tapped Annette lightly on the shoulder. Immediately, she jerked her head up, but her gaze softened at the sight of the person she saw there: a small boy of about ten or so, with long, scraggly, blond hair and a newsboy cap.

"Miss, are you lost?" he asked.

She nodded first, barely trusting herself to speak, but soon enough she croaked it out. "Yes."

"I can take you somewhere safe, if you want? I'll take you to my sister. My name's Gavroche, by the way."

And at that moment, just as she was coming to stand and taking the – dirty – hand he offered her, it suddenly hit her. Where, when she was, why those people sitting around the small pond in the park seemed so oddly familiar to her. _I'm in Les Mis__érables. I__'ve somehow travelled into Victor Hugo's book. Holy hell, I'm in Les __Misérables!_

AN: I will be translating most French terms at the end of each chapter.

_bar-tabac _– a corner or convenience store, selling cigarettes, magazines, stamps, with a bar or café corner.

_roman-fleuve _– literally a 'novel-river' – a long novel, a 'brick' :)


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Hi again and thanks for reading! Thanks to the people that signed up to follow this story, too :) Hope you enjoy this chapter. Again, reviews are always welcome :)

Chapter 2:

Even as she let the little boy lead her down the street, his hand squeezed in hers, Annette was lost in thought. _Les Misérables. _It had been one of the books she had read in the last year, not the most recent one, but not terribly long ago, either. Between _War and Peace_ and _Madame Bovary _it had been, hadn't it? Or maybe it was after Zola's _Germinal, _and before something by Dickens. She didn't exactly remember her reading schedule – the days seemed to slide into each other now, anyways. She remembered being completely entranced by the work, though. It kept her up late into the night, especially once she'd reached the last third of the book or so, which she hadn't wanted to put down. She'd been all caught up in the story, in the characters, far more engrossed in their intrigues than she had been in the world around her, the people filling her everyday existence, and she'd cried hot tears – real tears – each time a character died.

_Almost all of them do_, Annette realized in shock. _This little child, and all of the others, all of the revolutionaries, they all die so tragically! _

It was bad enough when she had thought it was only fiction!

Was she going to meet them all? She felt like she knew them already, from reading about their lives, their passions, their dreams. Wasn't there anything she could do to help them, to keep them from the end she knew was coming?

"Don't be afraid, miss. I'll keep you safe."

Annette realized her hand was clenching Gavroche's far tighter than she'd ever meant to. Releasing the force of her grip, she attempted to smile, but it came out bitter.

_It's not me I'm afraid for…!_

Maybe she would get to meet the revolutionary students, later, then. If Gavroche was taking her to his sister, that would mean Eponine, and through her she would surely meet Marius – who, if Annette wasn't mistaken, was the young man she'd seen in the park. Well, and assuming Marius wasn't completely in shock at her mid-20th-century clothing, maybe she could convince Marius to introduce her to his friends, and then maybe she could talk them into calling the revolution off. They wouldn't persist, not if they really knew what was in store for them, would they?

Not getting involved wasn't an option. Though she knew that her feeling of knowing these people closely from the book might well turn out an illusion, as she'd never met them before, she already felt implicated in their story. If there was something, anything she could do to avert their sad fate, she felt responsible for doing it. If nothing else, Annette did know exactly what it was like to be sent away to safety in dangerous times while others she cared for, not so lucky, lost their lives, and she wasn't ever going to go through that again.

"Miss, where are you from?"

"I'm from Paris," Annette told him. "You don't have to call me 'miss' by the way. I'm just Annette, Annette Szekely."

"Sh-what?"

"Sheh-ké-ly. It's Hungarian." She couldn't help rolling her eyes, though she supposed that if the Parisians of 1949 couldn't pronounce it, she shouldn't expect the Parisians of 1832 to fare any better.

"Sorry. But you're from here in Paris?"

Annette nodded.

Gavroche frowned. Soon enough, though, he smiled again. "It's okay. My sister is at the apartment of a friend of ours right now. I think he's out, but you can talk to her, and maybe we can help you find your way home or something. If not, when our friend gets home, maybe he'll know what to do."

Soon enough, they were climbing a flight of stairs into yet again another wooden building. Gavroche knocked on a door with a fist, then pushed the door open. Self-consciously, Annette ran a hand through her hair, which was a mess. Usually stick-straight, the ends were curling up in the humid air. _Figures, I travel back in time over a hundred years but the weather hasn't changed!_

Through a narrow hallway, Gavroche led her into a small kitchen. By a window, probably over some kind of wood-burning stove, a young woman was stirring a pot of soup. She had long, brown hair; she was wearing a white shirt and a full, brown skirt in the style that Annette had seen earlier. As she looked towards them, Annette could see that the girl – Eponine, though Annette would wait to be introduced – had large brown eyes, indubitably larger at the moment than usual at the sight of Annette.

"Eponine, this is Annette. She got lost and so I thought I'd bring her here, and maybe we could help her get home."

Eponine nodded. She murmured "hello," but didn't say anything else, looking Annette quizzically up and down.

"Nice to meet you?" Annette offered awkwardly.

"Sorry," Eponine said after a minute, meeting Annette's eyes finally and attempting a smile. "You just look so strange. I mean, you're dressed so badly, but you look healthy. I can't tell what kind of person you are at all."

"She said she was from Paris," Gavroche told Eponine.

"I've never seen a dress like yours before," Eponine clarified.

"I'm sure you haven't."

Their reaction had to be reasonable. After all, one didn't meet time travelers – if that's what she was now – everyday. Still, Annette was just as shocked to find herself back in 1832 as they clearly were to have her there, and she'd managed to keep her reflections about running water and baths to herself.

"What happened to your hair?" Eponine asked after another minute. "It's so short! Were you sick, maybe, or did you have to sell it?" Now her look was one of pity.

At this, Annette had to hold back ironic laughter. She might be in the 19th century now, but she'd never thought anyone might take her for the tragic heroine type, a Fantine or a tuberculin Mimi. _Did Eponine ever meet Fantine, actually? If she did Eponine would have been too young to remember it… _

"Um, actually, this is considered fashionable where I come from," Annette told the siblings. "Would you believe that?"

"Really? But I've never seen anyone like you before, not anywhere in Paris. You said you were from Paris, weren't you?" Gavroche asked again.

"So I am from Paris," Annette repeated. They didn't believe her, this was clear, but she couldn't exactly tell them the truth, could she?

"Does everyone have short hair where you come from? Why would girls want to cut their hair short if they didn't have to?" This was Eponine.

"Not everyone." To be honest, Annette didn't think her hair was that short. Between her chin and the bottom of her ear in front, shorter in back, a classic bob, essentially, like from the 1920s. Of course, these people here personally remembered the 1820s. They wouldn't know anything about Clara Bow or it-girls, the pictures, or even the old, turn-of-the-century _cin__é__matographe_. "I don't know anyone with hair as long as yours, though, Eponine. Most girls have it about my length, or maybe to their shoulders. It's really not unusual. I had it short as a child, then long, in braids, as a schoolgirl, then when I finished school I cut it again. I guess after women for millennia went through life with all their ideas about beauty and self-worth caught up in them having long hair, it must have been very liberating for them to be able to cut it off and not feel any less feminine for it."

"That makes some sense, actually," the other young woman conceded.

"'Women through millennia?'" Gavroche asked.

"Hush, Gavroche, obviously she didn't mean one same woman!" Then, Eponine laughed. "Gavroche has longer hair than you, actually."

Annette did smile honestly now. "That's true. I think he'd be as much as a sight where I come from as I apparently am here."

Gavroche grinned.

"Do you want some soup?" Eponine gestured to the pot, then to Gavroche, "I found these vegetables and Marius said I could cook them here."

Peering in, Annette could see meager chunks of carrot and a potato, floating in what looked like nothing more than boiling water. Not even a bouillon cube was there to flavor it.

"Oh, I couldn't take your food," Annette insisted. "You don't have very much."

"Do you have anything, though?" Gavroche asked her.

Suddenly, another wave of panic threatened to destabilize her as she realized she had no food on her, and if she didn't find a way to get home, or relied on the help of these people she knew could barely feed themselves, she had no way to get anything to eat for herself any time soon. Even as that thought was washing over her, though, she was reaching a hand into the part of her purse that was for coins, calming as she felt the familiar touch of one-and-five franc pieces. In fact, a franc was worth quite a lot of money in _Les Misérables, _wasn't it? Wasn't it ten francs that Fantine was struggling so hard to get, to send to Cosette? In 1949, ten francs could buy you less than nothing, but in 1832… ten years after the part with Fantine, granted …

"You know, I might actually be able to help you two," Annette told Eponine and Gavroche. "I have some money on me that might be worth quite a lot to you. I can show you if you want. If it works, we can share it equally among the three of us. If it doesn't work, well, then I'm up a creek, but no more than you usually are."

Gavroche laughed and Eponine smiled shyly, and Annette fished a handful of coins into her fist, but at that moment the front door banged open again and the young man from the park came into the kitchen, so Annette, dropping the coins back into her purse, turned to face him.

"I've just finished the soup, Monsieur Marius," Eponine announced, slightly breathless now that she turned to talk with him. "This is Annette, by the way. Gavroche found her out on the street somewhere. She got lost."

_Monsieur, really? And he's a revolutionary? _Annette asked herself.

"I saw you in the park. I thought you looked funny." Marius told Annette. "I'm Marius, by the way."

"Annette. Szekely. Yeah, I know. I'm from 1949."

Why not? She'd have to tell them sometime, wouldn't she? Besides, stalling, searching for a convincing story, was not working; Annette was decidedly no good at lying.

"What?"

"1949." Reaching a hand back down into her purse, Annette fished out her identity card. There, next to her black-and-white photo, one from several years back, when she still had the aforementioned long braids, was her birth date.

"Wait, what's this?" Marius asked her.

"My identity card. As you can see, I was born in 1930, so I'm 19 now, in 1949. I don't know how, but somehow I have found myself back in … 1832, is it?"

As if she didn't know!

Marius nodded slowly, trying to take it all in, she supposed.

"That's why she's dressed the way she is, and that's why her hair is short," Eponine called out helpfully. "That's fashionable where she's from, she said."

"This actually makes some sense," Marius told them. "I mean, less than a hundred years ago all those people had those powdered wigs, so..."

"Annette, show him your money." Gavroche suddenly remembered the coins. "Marius will know if they're worth something."

Eponine began to explain what Annette had said about the coins, now, as Annette pulled out a few and put them in Marius's hand. The young man looked them over, at first frowning, his eyes narrowing, and then suddenly grinning broadly.

"They're so light!" he exclaimed. "What are they made of?" He held up a five-franc piece.

"Um, aluminum, I suppose," Annette said. "Sometimes it's nickel, but that one … yeah, if it was minted back in '45 I think it was aluminum. Those are very light."

"And it's worth a lot in 1949?"

"No, it's worth next to nothing. But we had a lot of inflation in the last few … decades, really, I think, particularly with the war and with the financial crash before that. It might be worth a lot more to you and your friends."

"Our francs are made of silver, in fact," Marius responded. "I'm not sure anyone will actually think this is money. What's interesting to me, though, is what it says on it. Do you read?"

Annette was about to snap 'of course,' but then realized that Marius's less fortunate acquaintances probably couldn't, back in 1832. Instead, she simply nodded. So, Marius handed the small coin back to her and she looked it over. 'RF' it said on one side, surrounded by some kind or wreath. On the other side, the words 'République française' were encircling a woman's head – Marianne, she supposed.

"Oh!" Annette suddenly exclaimed. Fishing a ten-franc coin out of her purse now, she handed it to Marius. "And this one says 'liberté égalité fraternité' around the top. I, um, take it your money doesn't?"

Shaking his head slowly, Marius pulled a coin from his pocket and handed it to her. Holding it, she could see what he meant about the weight. The silver wasn't heavy, nor was the aluminum coin feather-light, but his coin had a sense of solidness, of substantiality, that hers did not. Like hers, it was stamped '5 Francs,' but unlike hers, the heads' side bore a man's face and the words 'Louis Philippe I, Roi des français.'

"Right…" Annette breathed, handing his money back to him. He, in turn, returned hers.

"What's going on?" Gavroche asked.

"It's a revolutionary coin," Marius announced. "Annette, do you … um, do you believe in the things on the coin? The Republic, liberty and equality and fraternity, things like that?"

Nobody had ever asked her this question before. She supposed if someone had, back in her own time, she might have just rolled her eyes and mumbled that it beat the alternative, knowing that both she and her interlocutor would be thinking of the years of the Vichy regime. Suddenly conscious, however, of what these symbols must mean for Marius and for Gavroche, probably for Eponine as well, and doubtless for all of Marius's friends, Annette nodded earnestly. "Yes. Yes I do. Of course I do."

"Wow, great. Annette, would you mind if I introduced you to some friends of mine?"

Annette shook her head, trying not to show her excitement, full aware that her heart was pounding now no longer from panic but from something else entirely. Marius had already gone for his coat, exclaiming, "I know Enjolras for sure will want to see that coin."

"I guess if I tried to spend it people would think your friends had made the coin themselves," Annette murmured to Gavroche, who grinned again.

"Wait up, we're all coming!" Eponine exclaimed, opening a door and banking the fire inside the stove with some kind of metal tool. Then, only a few seconds later, they were all out in the street once more.

AN: _cin__é__matographe_ – an early French movie camera

I wanted to post links to images of the coins that Annette and Marius show each other, but FFnet wouldn't let me. So, um, PM me if you want the links or something?


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hi again everyone! Thanks again to everyone who is following this story and thanks especially for my very first review! As always, reviews are welcome. Enjoy

Chapter 3:

As the four of them hurried down the street, Annette's heart was still pounding. Partly excited, partly nervous again, she almost couldn't believe her good fortune. It had taken nothing more than a glimpse at the coins in her handbag, and Marius was ready to introduce her to the other revolutionaries! If only the rest could be so easy! Glancing beside her, she smiled shyly at Gavroche, who grinned back. She then turned towards Eponine, but Eponine was focused on Marius – of course – and Marius wasn't looking at any of them.

It only took them a few minutes to reach the café; they all entered straightaway. Marius pushed the door open, then turned to usher Annette in, Gavroche and Eponine following close behind. It was smaller inside than she had expected. Young men were crowded around a long table in the center. They looked up as the group entered, some looking her over, just like all of the people in the street had done earlier in the day. To her apparent surprise, Annette realized that she couldn't recognize any of them individually. She attempted a smile nonetheless, knowing it looked nervous, which was, she supposed, normal given the situation. After all, nobody was going to expect that she'd read their story in a novel.

Gavroche had pushed ahead to take a seat among the students, who were greeting him, smiling; one ruffled his hair. "Hey Marius," someone called, "who's this?"

"Hey everyone, this is Annette. Gavroche found her wandering on the street and brought her to my place. It turns out she's a time traveler, and she comes from a time after the revolution. She has coins with revolutionary symbols on them, and she says she believes in it, too."

At this, everyone, even those who hadn't already been doing so, turned to stare at Annette.

"A time traveler?" someone else asked.

"She's from 1949," Gavroche told them. "I found her sitting on a street corner. She looked lost."

"How did you travel in time, exactly?" This was another young man. He was sitting in the center of the group and had short, straight, dark hair and dark eyes. This was the first time any of them had addressed Annette directly, and when he did so, the others turned to look at him.

Annette steeled herself to answer, taking a deep breath. Best to respond slowly, carefully. She glanced down at her shoes as she began to speak. "I don't … actually know. I left my apartment to take a walk … early in the afternoon, in, you know, 1949. I suddenly turned a corner and was in a place I'd never seen before. I guess I'd gone back in time then. I tried to turn around and go back where I came from, but the street I'd just left was gone, so I kept going, trying to find my way home. At some point, I got tired and sat down, and that's when Gavroche found me."_ Great, _Annette thought to herself, as she finished. There really was no way to make her story sound sensible; telling it only reminded her of all the panic and confusion she'd felt that afternoon. _They are going to think I'm an absolute nutcase._

Fortunately, Gavroche chimed in to help her out. "You see the way she's dressed? I've never seen clothes like hers before, but she says they're normal in her time."

"I have an identity card if you want to see it," she managed to offer. "My name is Annette Szekely, and I was born in 1930. I understand we're in 1832, here."

The dark-haired man nodded thoughtfully, and Annette reached into her purse and passed the card towards him. He looked at it for a second, turning it over.

"I know this sounds very strange. I assure you, it's as strange to me as it must be to you."

There was some laughter at this, and looking up, Annette was greeted with several friendly smiles. They might not believe her story, but they weren't being unkind, at least.

"I brought her here because she has some coins I wanted you to see, particularly you, Enjolras. I don't know what you would make of them." This was Marius, and the person he was addressing was indeed the dark-haired man sitting in the group's center. Well, that made some sense, didn't it?

Marius glanced towards Annette. Once again she reached into her little purse. Pulling out her five and ten-franc coins, she approached the table and handed them to Enjolras. He took them from her, handing back her card as he did so. He looked the coins over carefully.

As Enjolras studied the coins, Annette attempted to study him. He was the leader of the students' movement, after all; she was pretty sure that anything he decided, the others would follow. If she wanted to get them to change their plans in some way, getting him on board was key. Well, he was less impulsive, less impetuous than Marius – this she knew from the book. While Marius, having seen her coins, had evidently decided she was sympathetic and trustworthy, his comrades – and particularly Enjolras – might not do the same. There would probably be questions, maybe a probationary period of some kind, if she said she wanted to join them. She had heard such stories about the Resistance, from back during the war. So, what should she do? Whistle "Le chant des partisans?" "_Sifflez, compagnons, dans la nuit la libert__é nous écoute?__"_ No, there was no way they would know that. It was written back only in '42 or '43, and besides, Annette wasn't sure that she could whistle, anyway. Should she sing the "Internationale" then? Had that been written yet? The "Marseillaise" would probably work...

Lifting her eyes, Annette really looked into Enjolras's face for the first time. She noted his strong features, the intelligence and intensity that sparkled in his brown eyes, ringed by long lashes. She could feel the energy radiating off of him, how his simple presence commanded the room. That, and he was really not bad looking at all: more than a little attractive, which was not helping her concentration whatsoever. _Focus, Annette. _

Finally, Enjolras looked up, handing the coins back to Annette. "You're from a time that has had another revolution," he said.

_More than one. _Still, the girl nodded. "I'm living in the 4th Republic." _Query whether you can say it was a revolution that founded it, but … _"In my time, these words written on my coins are common symbols of the nation, but I know the force and meaning they must have those who don't have the rights I enjoy."

Now, it was the young man's turn to nod thoughtfully. "The fourth?"

"I was born in the third. There was a war that ended it, for four years. That's why I know what it is like to have rights and then to have them taken away. When the war was over, though, the 4th Republic was established almost immediately. By the time in which I'm living, nobody even questions the idea that a democratic republic is the kind of government we should have." Was that true? Annette hoped that it had been the right thing to say, at least.

Enjolras looked up at his friends. "So, I guess what she's saying is, we're to found the second. Isn't that so?"

But Annette shook her head quickly. Enjolras turned back to her now, his expression inscrutable. "No?"

"…Not exactly." Her mouth was dry. The young man nodded again, holding her gaze with his own, the look in his eyes gradually sharpening as she stalled, but finally, he nodded once more, and he gave her a smile.

"I see. You'll tell me later."

At this, Enjolras began to introduce her to the other young men filling the café. Some waved or smiled; soon enough, the others began clamoring their own names. Annette tried to keep them straight: Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly … tried to match names to faces. Grantaire she should have recognized – he was slightly older, with reddish hair, in the corner with his bottle of wine and, if Annette's 20th-century taste was anything to go by, a god-awful green shirt. Everyone seemed friendly, welcoming, yet they looked at Annette with a bit of puzzlement and awe. It was Grantaire who tried to break the ice, patting the seat on the bench next to him and asking if she wanted something to drink.

_Wine might not be a bad idea right now, _the girl thought to herself, _for lack of something stiffer, anyway. _She briefly wondered whether women drank back in the 1830s. What would they think of her if she accepted? But then, Annette realized that having had nothing to eat all day, not counting the bread and butter and the orange for breakfast, drinking alcohol at the moment was probably a terrible idea. "Um, I would, but I haven't eaten anything recently, so…"

"You've been wandering all day, haven't you?" Gavroche piped up.

One of the students was already cutting off slices of bread, and another had got out some cheese, handing pieces to Annette, as well as to Gavroche and to Eponine, who had finally come forward from the door.

"Thank you," Annette began self-consciously. "In fact, I don't really have anything here in this time. I don't have a place to stay, and my money isn't any good here."

"Can she stay at your place, Monsieur Marius?" Eponine asked.

Annette turned to face the two of them. Marius had frowned, was biting his lower lip. He didn't want to say no, Annette supposed, but she could imagine how having a strange woman staying at his flat could be inconvenient, especially if he was trying to get up the courage to address the girl from the park – Cosette, of course, though she wasn't supposed to know that yet.

"There's a room above the café." Enjolras came to the rescue. "I don't think there's anything in it, maybe a table. We can get you some blankets at least and we'll try to scrounge up a mattress."

"That would be most kind, thank you." Then – "Can Eponine and Gavroche stay there, too? That is, if they want to?"

Enjolras shrugged. "There shouldn't be a problem. If anyone tries to bother you three, tell them I said you could stay there."

From the back of the room, Eponine's eyes were shining.

Marius finally spoke up. "You know, Annette, I would like to keep one or two of your coins, if you wouldn't mind. I'd be happy to exchange them for you with some of mine."

"For what? In my time they're worthless."

"They're not in symbolic value. I'd give you fifteen francs for fifteen of yours."

"That's a rotten exchange rate." But Annette could see what Marius was trying to do – give her something to live on without making her accept charity, so she took the coins he was holding out, placing those she still held in her hand in his. She smiled sheepishly.

"Is there any way we can get Annette some more normal clothes?" Eponine asked, then. "Everyone stares at her, the way she's dressed now. I'd give you a dress if I had another one, Annette, but…"

"You're right, she is conspicuous like that," Enjolras agreed. "Annette, …" He paused, then turned to the others, "could we buy her a dress? How much do they cost?"

The young men all looked almost nervously amongst themselves, and Annette couldn't help but begin to laugh. They had no idea! Nor did she, actually; she supposed if someone handed her some more coins, she could find a shop and get a dress, that is, if they even had prêt-à-porter back in 1832. She'd have no idea what kind of a dress to get, though. With her luck, she'd wind up with something just as outlandish as apparently they all thought what she was presently wearing was. Eponine wouldn't know any better, either, … nor could she possibly imagine any of the students accompanying her and having any clue how to counsel her what to buy. Besides, anything new would look too bourgeois, out of place in a revolution…

"Actually, could I borrow some clothes from you boys?" Annette finally asked. "I can work out a dress later, I guess, but I think I'd still get questions with my hair like it is. Maybe I could dress as a boy – I might fit in better. Besides," she turned to Eponine, "I don't know if you have to, but I've never worn a corset and wouldn't very much like to have to try."

There was laughter at this and even some applause. From somewhere, a cap like Gavroche's came flying towards her, which Annette – astonishingly, actually managed to catch. One young man offered a shirt he thought he had at home, another a pair of trousers that were too short for him, and a belt. Several got up, explaining that they would head back to their places to see what they had around and would return with what they found. Some others wanted to compare their feet sizes to Annette's, wondering if anyone possibly had boots small enough to fit her. If not, she could wear her sandals for the time being, and someone could take her to get a pair of shoes later.

So, those who thought they might have extra clothes at home left, including Marius, and Eponine with him, to pick up her soup. At first, Annette simply sat by those who remained, eating her bread and cheese. Grantaire cut some dried sausage for her and for the others, then – finding a glass, poured her some wine. For several minutes, she listened as the others talked. Occasionally, somebody asked her a question. The topics varied from the everyday to the political; she tried to follow as much as she could.

Glancing up from her glass, Annette saw Enjolras looking in her direction. His gaze was far away, actually; he perhaps wasn't even aware he was looking at her, but when she met his eyes and smiled, he smiled back.

"Thanks for all your help," she murmured.

"My pleasure. Say … I was thinking, do you have another ten-franc coin? I'd exchange it for one of ours, if you didn't mind."

She didn't have to ask why he wanted it. Reaching into her purse once again, she found one, and checking it quickly to make sure this one indeed had "liberté, égalité, fraternité" stamped on it, (for as far as Annette could remember, a whole load of coins had been issued since 1945, not all saying the same things on them), she passed it to him.

"You can keep it," she said. "You've given me enough … a place to stay, I don't need anything else."

"Still …" he passed her a coin, which she took. Then, "You've heard of us. Of our movement."

"I've read something," Annette admitted.

He nodded. For a second, he looked as if he was going to ask another question, but then he looked away, instead, examining the coin she had given him. Suddenly, Annette heard herself asking, "Which of them do you think is the most important?"

"What?"

"Well, between liberty and equality, I suppose. I've read that you think about these things a lot, and I wondered, because some people say that on a certain level, freedom and equality are incompatible."

Annette had heard this as a criticism of Marxism. Not that Enjolras was a Marxist per se; not exactly – had Marx even been born yet? But maybe he was a sort of proto-Marxist? This was the era of Utopian Socialism, wasn't it? What did that mean, anyway? Annette wished she remembered who had tried to talk to her about this, what whoever it was had said. That, and she wished she remembered what she'd learned in school about this era, now deeply regretting the general lack of attention she'd ever paid in school, in history in particular.

"In an absolute sense, you mean?" Enjolras asked.

"I suppose so."

"They have to be balanced with each other, then, don't they? Because one's freedom can't extend to … oppressing other people, say. What do you think?"

Around the table, Annette could see Enjolras's comrades looking at the two of them. Once again, the girl took a deep breath. Though she tried to think of something clever to say, when she responded, she did so honestly.

"I'm not sure. I think liberty is a more fundamental right, because everybody wants to be free. When people aren't free, they will join together and fight for it, even if they agree on nothing else. In the war in my time, during the German Occupation, all sorts of people joined the Resistance: left, right, communists, capitalists, bourgeois … even if their definition of liberty was different, in the end. Even if they didn't all believe that equality in society was possible, or even desirable."

"But, if you don't seek equality, you do nothing about the social problems, the suffering that the poor face now," Enjolras told her.

"Right. Have you thought about how you will convince people who maybe don't see that their natural interests also lie in helping the poor improve their lot?"

He frowned thoughtfully at this. "Those who can understand will be with us; swept up in the revolutionary élan," he finally told her. "Those who can't … in the end, the people are more numerous, anyway. We'll have the advantage."

Annette bit her lip. She ducked her face away, but Enjolras's eyes followed her – she wasn't sure he hadn't seen. He didn't press, though, and finally, Annette asked, "But, when it's over, have you thought about how to make those people work with you, once you've won? Do you know how you'll … you know, win the peace?"

"Win the peace?" Enjolras looked both puzzled and amused at the turn of phrase.

"Yes, because it seems to me that before you go to war, you should think about how to win the peace. And, well, when it comes down to it, the one might help with the other, too."

He snorted softly at this, half-smiling. Beyond that, though, Annette couldn't read his expression at all. In a way, he looked intrigued, and perhaps he appreciated the question. He didn't seem at all angry, at least. For a second, it again seemed like Enjolras was going to ask her something else, but at that moment, the rest of the students – plus Eponine with Marius – poured back into the café, carrying several blankets and cushions, a small bundle of clothing, as well as the small, now indubitably cold, pot of soup, and Annette had to go with them to set up the room upstairs.

AN:

"_Sifflez, compagnons, dans la nuit la libert__é nous écoute__": _"Whistle, companions (~comrades – in a 'brothers in arms' sense more than a communist sense), in the night liberty listens to us," the last line of the "Chant des partisans" – written in 1943. There's a lot more information on Wikipedia, including a full translation of the lyrics, if you want to know more.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Hi again! Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Life and school have been a little crazy at the moment. Thanks for all the reviews (wow, three for the last chapter!) Glad you are enjoying so far. Again, reviews are always welcome. Hope you continue to enjoy :)

Chapter 4:

"Okay, you can look now. I'm decent."

It was about an hour later. Annette, Eponine, and Gavroche were in the small room above the café. Downstairs, it was quiet – most, if not all, of the others had left. At her words, the siblings turned back to face Annette, squinting in the half light cast by the lamp in the street. They looked her over with a critical air, but also with a smile.

There had been several shirts that fit Annette, albeit with room to spare. She had chosen a white one, with a pair of khaki-colored trousers. These were tight in some places and baggy in strange ones, but Annette had expected as much, and with a belt to hold them, they fit securely enough. There was also a brocaded vest, strangely heavy in the summer heat, decorated with florid pink flowers with orange accents. Someone had even found a small pair of boots that fit far better than she'd ever expected; he must have outgrown them himself not very long ago. That thought was unsettling, actually; in a way, it drove Annette's mission home once more.

She tried not to reflect on this now, though. Instead, she placed her new cap upon her head, tucking her hair back behind her ears. "How do I look?" she asked.

From her spot on the floor, cushioned back against a large pillow, Eponine giggled. "Not bad."

"You really do look almost like a boy!" Gavroche exclaimed.

Annette smirked. "Thanks, I think?"

"In a good way, of course," Eponine told her.

"Do you think I need the vest?" Annette asked.

"I think you do. It hides your chest." This was Eponine again.

"But it's so ugly!"

"What's wrong with it?"

"The … pink, the orange, the flowers, the everything! Do men actually wear things like this?"

Eponine shrugged. "Sometimes. Why shouldn't they? Flowers are nice. I like flowers!"

"Someone must have raided his colorblind grandmother's sofa for the fabric," Annette muttered. "All right, all right, they gave me clothes, which they didn't have to do. I won't complain."

"That's a good girl."

"Here, take a look yourself." Gavroche lit a candle – evidently one had been around, lying on top of the small table in the corner, perhaps, and held it up to the window. In the light, Annette saw her own reflection, rather than the street outside. For a second, once she'd found a comfortable distance to do so from, she studied it. Though it was her own face that gazed back at her, in many ways she now looked like any one of the boys who she'd met downstairs. She wouldn't fool anyone who looked at her closely, she supposed, but as people tended to see what they expected to, she was unlikely to stand out on in public now. It was almost strange; was she, in a way, becoming part of the story? Funny, really – in the novel it was supposed to be Eponine who dressed as a boy, only far later. Had she been inspired to do so by Eponine's example, albeit subconsciously? Would that have an impact on the story, in the end? Well, she couldn't go back on it now.

"It'll do," Annette remarked at length. She came to sit by Eponine on the cushions; the other girl gave her another shy smile. After a moment, Gavroche blew out the candle and came to sit beside them.

"It's nice out tonight," Eponine remarked. It was a few minutes later. Gavroche had already jumped up again to open the window, and now all three of them were standing by it once more, enjoying the finally cool breeze.

"Yeah, I like it when the heat breaks," Annette agreed. Calmer than she'd been all day, she was smiling now, too. Gavroche had reached up and taken her hand again, and impulsively she'd wrapped her other arm around Eponine's shoulder. The other girl looked surprised at first, but she didn't shrug off the touch.

For several minutes, they simply watched the street below, which was nearly deserted now. Lights flickered from windows across and diagonal from them. A few people passed by – an old man who looked drunk, a young couple embracing, both gone as soon as they had appeared. Then, the street was empty. One of the lights from one of the windows went out. Just as Annette was reflecting on the quiet serenity of the moment, however, a man stepped into view. He was wearing a dark coat and had a tall hat. When he stepped under the street lamp, Annette could see that his hair was long, in a ponytail. At the sight of him, Eponine let out a gasp, and Gavroche stepped back, drawing the three of them away from the window, back into the dark of the room.

"That's Inspector Javert! He's got it in for us," Gavroche whispered.

Eponine had a finger to her lips to shush him, but the man in the street didn't appear to have heard them. He wasn't looking in their direction, anyway, and a minute later he had already gone away.

Annette abruptly let go of Eponine's shoulder. She was surprised to find herself shaking. It was Eponine now who reached for Annette's shoulder; Annette, suddenly all tense, shrugged off the touch.

"Don't worry, Annette, he'll never catch us," Gavroche then told her.

Annette attempted a smile, trying at the same time to calm her racing heart. Eponine took her hand now and led her back to the blankets and cushions on the floor, where they sat down. After a moment, Eponine asked softly, "But why are you afraid? Surely, you have nothing to fear from the police. You're not even from our time."

Annette bit her lip, then let out a ragged attempt at a deep breath. "No," she replied finally. "It's got nothing to do with your time, or with Inspector Javert or anyone. It's just something from my own past."

"Can you tell us?"

Just as quickly, Annette shook her head. "You won't understand."

"You could try us." Now even Gavroche's tone was hesitant, almost gentle.

Annette took one more deep breath. Could she try and explain? She'd never had words for it before. People thought they knew the story – she'd been only one of thousands of children hidden, after all. It was hard enough to attempt to come to terms with the dead… nobody had come to terms, really, not yet, anyway. And so, it had always been easier not to talk …

"It might help you to talk about it," Eponine suggested at length. "But if you don't want to, you don't have to."

If she did tell them, where would she begin? These people knew nothing about her time, nothing about the war, or the Occupation, … the deportations. Then again, she had cried over Eponine's and Gavroche's misfortunes, though she knew strictly nothing about the time in which they lived, and, for whatever reason, they seemed to have taken a liking to her, too. It didn't feel like she had only met them today. Glancing down, she realized that both Eponine and Gavroche still had their hands locked in hers. It seemed like their closeness, somehow, already went two ways.

Finally, Annette nodded stiffly. "I'll try, anyway. Well, … so, in my time, during a war we had, the police were looking for people … like me. They didn't find me, but they found my parents – and they sent them away to the east, and they died there. I didn't know that they were being sent away to be killed, but I knew that something terrible would happen if the police caught me …"

That hadn't been a very good explanation. Both Eponine and Gavroche were looking at her, struggling to comprehend, though pity was written in both of their faces. Annette took one more deep breath, then endeavored to start again. "All right, sorry, I'll try to explain better. Well, the war, it happened – it began when I was ten. At that time, Germany wanted to take over all of Europe. Their army was very strong. They attacked us in May of 1940, and even though we thought we were prepared, they crushed our defenses and took us over in just about a month."

"What country is Germany?" Gavroche asked.

Annette tried to think. "Prussia," she finally answered. "And some other of those states. They became one country – later in the 19th century. But it wasn't the same Prussia you know. Their government was different."

Gavroche nodded, but Annette wasn't sure he understood. "To the east of here," she added. "Anyway, so nobody in the French government knew what to do, what with being taken over so quickly, and this military hero from a war we had earlier, Maréchal Pétain, he said he knew what to do, so they voted to let him take control of the situation. And he and his friends, they thought that the best thing would be to let Germany do what it wanted. Well, it turns out that Germany didn't just want to take us over – they wanted to fundamentally remake all of Europe, enlisting some people as helpers, enslaving others, and totally eliminating others still. Killing entire populations.

"So, my family was Jewish. I mean, they were and they weren't. Both of my parents were practicing Catholics… I'm not, anymore, but I don't practice anything else, either."

"Jewish is a religion, isn't it?" Eponine asked.

"It is, and some people think it's an ethnicity, too. The Nazis thought it was a race, and they wanted to kill all of us. It's strange, because like I said, we didn't think we were Jewish. Not my family; not anymore. My parents – they were from Hungary – they had converted to Catholicism before I was even born. I was baptized Catholic. I'm not sure when they came to Paris, but I know that I was born here. We were all citizens when the war broke out, but some time later we found out that the laws had been changed, and we weren't citizens anymore. They took this right away from us.

"The Nazis – and their French helpers – didn't care what religion you were, whether you practiced one, if any. To them, it was all about race, what they made up, you know? And they said they were going to send people away to work in the east. First the men. It was a little over a year after the armistice that my father was sent away.

"There were rumors that women and children were going to be sent away, too. My mother thought this was strange, because why would they send children to work? In fact, did you know that it was the French authorities who decided to deport children? The Germans only asked for adult men and women, but the French government had their police round up children, too.

"Anyway, so my mother, she arranged … because it wasn't like nobody was against this… There were networks being organized to save people, to shelter children in people's homes. So, she had me sent out to the countryside, to southwestern France. I stayed with a family, the Duponts. And what no one knew then, was that the people being sent away to the east, they weren't being sent to work. They were sent to be killed. Millions of people – not just Jews, really. Gypsies … and just … people who thought that what the Germans were doing was wrong. Communists. People like your friends downstairs, who believed in liberty and in human rights. Anti-fascists of all sorts. Not just from France, either, but from all the countries the Germans occupied – almost all of Europe."

Eponine and Gavroche were staring at her with their mouths open, now. Belatedly, Annette realized they wouldn't have understood words like 'Nazis' and 'anti-fascists.' Still, they seemed to get the main point. For their shock, they had no words. Well, Annette had found out the whole story four years ago, and she still had no words for it, either.

"And they killed all those people? People just let them get away with it?" Gavroche finally asked.

"Nobody knew all of it until afterwards," Annette told him. "And nobody could believe they would do such a thing. They took people in trainloads, to camps, and they killed people with gas. Then they burned the bodies. I guess enough people escaped that they could tell the story."

"How did anyone escape from that?" Eponine asked.

"Some of the people they actually did make work in factories. In the end – the Americans and the Soviets – that's the Russians – they defeated Nazi Germany and liberated the camps. So, those who survived came home.

"I returned to Paris in September of 1944, right after the Liberation. I was fourteen, then. My mother had been arrested in the street, just like that, some time after I'd gone to the south. One of her old friends told me so, when I got back – when I was looking for people. Anyway, once the deportees started coming back – there were trains every day – I waited at the station every day. I watched for my parents among the people coming back; I consulted all the lists that were published. But months passed and the trains stopped coming, and then I knew that they weren't ever going to come back."

Annette fell silent at that, biting her lip hard to stop the tears that were welling up in her eyes. For another long moment, nobody said anything. Gavroche was looking down, lost in thought. Eponine met Annette's eyes. Several times, she seemed to attempt to speak, to find words; Annette understood if she couldn't. Finally, Eponine reached out and rested a hand on Annette's shoulder once more, and Annette managed to give her a grateful smile.

"How could anyone have let it happen, though?" Gavroche finally asked. "Why did people in France let this happen?"

Annette couldn't help snorting bitterly. "I've been asking myself that for four years now."

"We wouldn't have let it happen if we'd been there," Gavroche insisted.

"I know you would have tried your hardest to stop it. There were people like you who did. Many of them died as well, but many survived, too."

After another moment, Eponine asked her, "Then what did you do?"

Annette shrugged. "I was sent to an orphanage."

"You couldn't go back to the family you stayed with in the south?"

At this, she shook her head. "No. We didn't get along well, really. They were supposed to treat me like their own child, but they didn't. I mean, I was twelve to fourteen years old at the time, not exactly a piece of cake in the best of circumstances, and trying to understand the world as it was falling to pieces around me. But they were resentful and perhaps afraid, and they took it out on me. And I gave as good as I got. 'I don't have to listen to you, you're not my parents,' I'd say, and they told me, they said, 'if you don't listen and do what we say, we'll hand you over to the police, and see how you like it then.'"

Gavroche let out a whistle in shock. "I thought you said they didn't know what was going on!"

"I'm sure they didn't. They wouldn't have said that if they knew. But it scared me enough to shut me up, and I suppose that remembering that, what's why I reacted the way I did when your policeman walked by. But it was wrong of me. The police here have nothing to do with the Vichy police. It was a completely different time, and a completely different context.

But Gavroche shook his head vehemently. "Don't give him too much credit. I know that if Javert were living in your time, he'd just jump to do his part in arresting innocent people."

"He's not a good man," Eponine added.

"Maybe, maybe not. I don't know him. But you can't assume things like that, Gavroche. You can't know what a person will do until he's put in that situation. You can't know in advance."

Eponine nodded soberly. Gavroche frowned, then shrugged. For her part, Annette took some more deep breaths, trying to convince herself that her own words were true.

"There was a girl staying with us once," Eponine murmured. A few minutes had passed in silence – Annette had been attempting to compose herself, the others, perhaps, attempting to take in her story. "My parents didn't treat her very well, either. Nor was I very kind to her, but it was a long time ago, and I didn't know any better."

Annette nodded. It was strange to know of whom Eponine was speaking. She had always wondered what Eponine thought of Cosette – if she'd thought of her at all – before she came into her life again via Marius.

Eponine shrugged slowly. "I feel bad about it sometimes. But, my parents are bad people. They … you know, sometimes my father's men hurt me. I know he knows, but he doesn't do anything about it."

Eponine ducked her face into her sleeve. Gavroche had turned to Annette; he'd begun to explain that their parents were thieves, but when Eponine finished her sentence, they both turned to stare at her, appalled. For her part, Eponine raised her eyes to meet theirs, her expression raw.

"He what?" Gavroche demanded. "I didn't know that! Which of the men? The bastards! I'll kill them!"

"Gavroche!" Eponine exclaimed, then, "You're ten!"

"There's not an age for wanting to defend his sister's honor, I suppose," Annette murmured. To her surprise, Eponine's gaze softened. She even managed a smile, which Annette returned.

"You knew, didn't you?" Eponine asked Annette then.

"What?"

She hadn't, not exactly. She supposed she ought to have guessed that something like this might have happened to Eponine; she had known well enough that Eponine's home situation wasn't a good one, after all. For a moment, Annette struggled with her thoughts, trying to figure out a way to explain how she knew what she did know, when Eponine spoke up again.

"Maybe not the specifics, but you could tell we came from a bad home. That's why you asked Enjolras if we could stay here in the café with you, isn't it? I couldn't understand it then, but now I know, it's because you've had a hard life, too, and you know what it's like, to feel like you've got no real home to go to, … even though nobody … well, I'm sure it wasn't as bad for me as it was for you…"

"Don't compare – that never helps," Annette insisted. "I didn't see the worst of it, either. I didn't see the camps or ... didn't see the people starving to death or anything like that. That's also why I've never been able to talk about it before, because they suffered – my parents must have suffered so much more than I ever did, before they died. In an objective sense, even you've probably suffered more than me. You've known real want … it's not the same. I'm glad you listened to me, though, and glad if I've been able to help you. That's what matters, isn't it?"

At this, the girls shared weak smiles again, then a somewhat-awkward hug.

Annette stretched, then; Eponine yawned. Gavroche, his small frame still tense with anger and indignation, nonetheless stood up to help them spread out the blankets. Hot as it still was, for the breeze had died away, they didn't need anything to sleep under, so they piled the blankets on top of each other to make the floor as soft and comfortable as possible. They then took off their shoes, and Gavroche his hat. Annette changed back into her dress from earlier, thinking it could serve as a nightgown for the time being, and then they all curled up, with just barely enough room on the blankets without touching.

Moonlight shone overhead, casting shadows over the features of the people lying beside her. Eponine's breaths had fast turned deep and regular; Gavroche was still trying to calm his. Annette, slowly regaining the inner peace she had felt when they'd all been standing by the window, tried for a time to hold on to the moment. Exhausted, though, she was quickly drifting off to sleep. Vaguely, she wondered if she would still be here, back in time, in the world of _Les Mis__érables,_ when she awoke. Despite her earlier fear and panic, it didn't really come as a surprise now that she hoped that she would. Well, there was only one way to find out …


	5. Chapter 5

Hi again! Thanks so much to the new people who are following this story, and annevalerie, thanks so much for your reviews! I wish you had an account so I could respond more thoroughly. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this chapter, too. As always; reviews are welcome. :)

Chapter 5:

When she awoke the next morning, Annette found herself still in the little room above the café, still in 1832, in the world of _Les Misérables. _So it was the next day, too, and the day after that. A week went by – Annette spent most of her time in the café. In the mornings, when few people were there, (though there was usually somebody around), she sometimes went out exploring, trying to familiarize herself with her new-and-old Paris. Sometimes, she did this on her own – other times Gavroche or Eponine came with her. These two didn't spend all of their time with Annette; sometimes they left, together or separately, and Annette didn't know what they did then, but every night they came back together. If not before bedtime, they always came back, the three of them, to sleep on the spread out blankets in the room upstairs.

As the afternoons wore on and turned to evening and most of the revolutionaries gathered back at the café, Annette met them there. She tried her best to talk to everyone, to get to know them. At first, many of the students didn't quite know what to say to her. Some seemed curious, others shy, oddly deferential. Though sometimes frustrated, Annette wasn't offended. She wasn't sure what she would have done had a visitor from another era popped into her life in 1949, after all. And, though there were often women coming in and out of the café, the young men were probably not used to a girl actively taking part in their meetings, acting and dressing like one of them. Still, Enjolras frequently encouraged her participation in their discussions, and Marius always asked how she was doing. She particularly liked talking to Grantaire – liked his dark sense of humor, his ironic smiles. Sometimes, he stayed later at the café, after the others had already gone home, and they would talk together. And, as time passed, the other students began to warm to her, too.

The day after Annette had arrived, in the evening, she'd seen Gavroche speaking quietly to Enjolras in a corner of the café. Annette had been sitting a little ways' away, talking with Eponine. She hadn't heard exactly what was said, but the way they kept glancing over at her, Enjolras's gaze growing ever more troubled and pensive as the minutes wore on, made it clear to Annette that Gavroche was relaying her story. Well, that wasn't a problem, Annette decided. It wasn't a secret, after all, and, come to that, Annette was glad not to have to repeat it again herself. She wondered if Enjolras had questions, or if he would tell his comrades, but he hadn't mentioned it to her afterwards – nor had anyone else.

This almost calm rhythm lasted for about two weeks after Annette had arrived, until one night, when the café was awash in excitement. The atmosphere there was usually lively enough, but on this night, the young men were not only discussing plans and tactics – things were evidently coming to a head. People were arriving from all parts, making their reports to Enjolras, shouting over each other. Their leader was standing in the middle of the room, somehow managing to acknowledge each new contribution with a nod. Annette, from her seat near the stairs, was simply trying to keep up.

"At Notre Dame, the sections are prepared!"

"At rue du Bac they're straining at the leash!"

Amidst all the chaos, Eponine slipped quietly through the door and, as if completely unnoticed by the others, came to sit by Annette. She was more than tense, agitated, her lips pursed in a tight line. Annette turned toward her, concerned. "Are you all right?"

Eponine began nodding, but quickly shook her head. "Can I … talk with you about something?"

In the center of the room, Enjolras had begun speaking; Annette would have liked to stay and listen. Still, she started to rise to her feet. Eponine, however, pressed a hand on her shoulder. "Later is okay," she murmured. So, Annette nodded and sat back down. She turned back to face the door now.

Marius had just entered. His face was all white. In a way, he looked as upset as Eponine, but while the girl's eyes had been dull and downcast, Marius's were shining with excitement, that and the same passion Annette remembered from the park, the very first day she'd arrived. Even before Joly asked him what was wrong, why he looked like he'd "seen a ghost," and Marius started to explain, Annette already understood what was "going on."

She glanced back towards Eponine, who, at Marius's words, looked crestfallen. Annette frowned sympathetically, extending a hand in support. At that moment, however, Grantaire began to speak, cracking a rather good joke about opera that got everyone's applause.

From then on, Annette by turns watched what was going on with the others, by turns looked back at Eponine. Even as Enjolras, in the middle of the room, began to chastise Marius for his unthinking haste, Eponine, in an undertone, started to fill Annette in on what had happened.

"I was with my parents – Marius had come by, and in the street he met ... this girl. They met eyes; apparently she smiled at him. He told me he'd seen her in a park and anyway he's gone crazy about her. Her father … he was with her, … _my _father recognized him … and do you know who she is? Cosette! The girl I was telling you about, the one who lived with us so long ago…!"

Annette nodded, listening even as her back was turned to Eponine. She watched as Marius argued with his friends, defending the validity of his feelings, and his friends, in turn, reminded him of their ideals.

"What's all that about, anyway?" Eponine suddenly asked, still in barely more than a whisper, though her tone was defensive. "Why's he not supposed to fall in love?"

"Because he's supposed to be devoted to the cause, I guess," Annette murmured back, turning to face her friend as she did so.

"But if he's supposed to love the people … is there really something wrong with him loving one person… one of the people, just a little bit more?"

"Fair question. You should ask Enjolras."

Eponine bit her lip at the suggestion; Annette gave her an encouraging smile, but shrugged as well.

By now, however, the young men had finished discussing Marius's feelings. Enjolras was asking for – and they had now returned to giving – their reports, describing the state of their armaments, so Annette turned around, paying full attention to what was going on. Barely had she done so, however, when Gavroche burst through the door. "Listen!" he cried, "General Lamarque is dead!"

_Who? _Annette asked herself, even as all the young men, even Enjolras, were staring, stupefied, at the small boy by the door. Quickly, she glanced back towards Eponine. Was this someone she was supposed to know?

Almost instantaneously, however, everyone was on his feet – Enjolras first: he was crying out stirring and striking words, about how Lamarque was "the people's man," how this was a sign, how it was now the time to act. All around him, people were jumping up, grabbing caps and the occasional coat, following him through the door and out into the street.

Behind them, Annette also sprang to her feet. Despite her earlier incomprehension, the significance of the moment was now clear to her. "I have to go with them!" she called to Eponine, who was staring at her now, alarmed. "I have to talk to Enjolras. I'll catch you back here later?"

Barely waiting for Eponine to nod, Annette also grabbed her cap and ran out.

Outside, in the square by the café, the students were shouting inspiring words – slogans. Doors and windows around them were opening, people were looking out, some coming out into the street to join them, others staring from above. Whether they were moved or simply interested, Annette did not know. The young men didn't stay there for long, however; a minute or two later they were off down the street, and Annette with them. Everyone was walking quickly, almost running, some passing out leaflets as they went. Soon, the shouting changed to singing. It wasn't the "Internationale," but in its strident beat, its rousing words, it almost sounded like it. She wondered if they had written it themselves.

Focused as she was on keeping up, on keeping an eye on where Enjolras was in the growing crowd, Annette listened with only half an ear. Still, by the end of a couple of verses, she had learned the chorus. Ducking and weaving through the crowd, she joined in as the group finished.

"When the beating of your heart, echoes the beating of the drums

There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!"

Perhaps appropriately, Annette's heart was pounding with a strange mixture of trepidation and pride; their enthusiasm and fervor was infectious.

Soon enough, the spontaneous rally broke up. People began leaving – returning to their homes. The revolutionaries headed in different directions. Annette followed the group's leader as he split off from the others and went off alone, struggling her way through the crowd for a moment, towards a narrow alleyway. He'd gotten a head start; Annette couldn't keep up with his quick footsteps. "Enjolras!" She finally called. "I need to talk to you!"

The young man turned around and began walking back towards her. They met in the middle, by a tall, stone, building, grey in the darkness, though there was a street lamp not far away. In the light, Annette could see that his face was flushed; his eyes were lit up, impassioned, as if on fire. For her part, Annette was panting. Enjolras waited for her to catch her breath, his own expression gradually calming, though his eyes lost none of their intensity.

Finally, Annette repeated, softer now, "I need to talk to you."

"You don't think we can win." Despite his expression, his voice was quiet, his tone simply matter-of-fact.

"I know you can't. Not now, and not this way." He was looking skeptical, so Annette added, "I've read it. If you try now, your revolution will fail. Everyone – almost everyone – will die. Nobody will even remember what you were trying to do."

"But you've read about it? How can you have read about it, if nobody remembers?" Enjolras was frowning.

Annette bit her lip. This was a question she hadn't expected. Yet, it made sense that he would ask. Still, Enjolras couldn't be told that his ill-fated movement had been immortalized in Victor Hugo's classic novel some fifty years later. He'd see it as a posthumous victory of sorts – and plunge straight ahead.

"Somebody wrote something down, you said."

"Well, sure. People are always writing something down: newspaper articles, police reports… I got to read them because … I'm interested in revolutions."

_I'm interested in revolutions? Really? _That was the best explanation Annette could come up with? Still, Enjolras nodded. If anyone _would _believe that, she supposed _he_ would …

"Some people remembered because it was a historical event. But, nobody understood! Not what it was supposed to mean! Nobody understood why you would choose to fight, why you'd go to your deaths … nobody remembers who Lamarque was or anything like that. We never heard his name in school – or yours. Listen, I wish you could win. I do believe in your cause, but now is not …"

"The time _is_ now, though! You saw it, just a few minutes ago, all the people out in the streets! The people are ready to take their fates – their own deliverance – in their own hands! _Sauvons-nous de nos propres mains! _They are ready to throw off centuries of oppression and inequity! They need us to lead them. If they are ready to rise, and we're not in the vanguard, where should we be?"

"They came out to hear your speeches, but they won't be with you when you take up arms, not when it counts! Yes, you have to lead them, but you have to show them the way! You need long work – years – to build up a movement. You can't just make a go of it on your own, like a bunch of anarchists!"

Enjolras scowled. Strangely, his anger made him look younger. "People who don't agree with us always call those on the Left anarchists," he spat.

"If you don't want to be called an anarchist, don't act like one! Listen, you have to know _when_ to strike! Look, … can I tell you a story from the war I lived through as a child?"

"Go on." He still looked angry, but his tone was again measured.

"Well, in the southwest, not far from where I was staying with a family, there was a man who, from the first, decided he had to do something – to fight back against the Forces of Occupation. He took to the forests, years before anyone else had the same idea. People called him '_le fou qui vit dans les bois.' _But, people came to join him, and by the summer of 1944 he'd built up a whole army. He had over a thousand men at his command. They called him _'Le Grand._' Can you imagine it, a thousand men?"

Enjolras's eyes had lit up again – clearly, he could imagine this.

Annette pressed on. "Anyway, people wanted him to make an insurrection in the town of Limoges. To liberate it from the Germans. This was in June 1944, something like that. But he said, 'no. It's too risky now.' There had been another insurrection in a town not far away called Tulle, which had failed. It had been so violently repressed like you don't even want to know … people hanged from all of the lampposts, that kind of thing. There'd been reprisals against the population, too. In a little town called Oradour-sur-Glane, the Germans shot all of the men, then locked all of the women and children in the town's church before setting it on fire – burned them all to death! Over six hundred people died then, all told, and … none of them, nobody in the town even had anything to do with the insurrection in Tulle. They just happened to be nearby! Anyhow, Guingouin, the commander I told you about, he didn't want such a thing to happen to his men or to the people of Limoges. So, he said, 'No, I'm not going to make an insurrection now, I'm going to wait.' And then, three months later, in August, with the Americans hot on the Germans' heels, he managed to force the garrison in Limoges to surrender without one shot fired, without anyone killed at all! He had a thousand men, but he still knew to wait for the right time."

"But if the right time for Paris is now?" Enjolras asked Annette.

"Guingouin had a thousand men and he didn't want to risk a failed uprising in _Limoges! _You think you and your thirty, if that, can take Paris?"

"The people _will _rise. They _have _to. We can't turn back now. We'll have our thousand! We'll have far more!"

Had he been listening at all? Annette sighed. "I just told you that you won't! You can't! Not now, not like this. Believe me, I wish you could win!"

"I think we will. We know we're in the right. You saw tonight, things are falling into line! I understand your concern and appreciate it, but … you'll see. The tide of history is with us. The barricades _will_ rise – tomorrow_ will_ come!" The look in his eyes was more than intense now; it was desperate. It seemed that convincing _her _was just as important to Enjolras as convincing him was to Annette. She couldn't imagine why, though – why was he being so stubborn?

"And the future will just take care of itself?" Annette couldn't help rolling her own eyes.

Enjolras's expression darkened. "The revolution has already begun. Join us – or not – do what you want. But it has begun and we _have_ to see it through. Maybe this time it'll be different. If you're worried … and if you are with us, maybe you can show us how to do it right this time."

For god's sake, didn't he realize that this was exactly what she was trying to do? "I see it's no use talking to you," Annette retorted.

"I do appreciate your concern. If you're with us, we're happy to have you. If not … I can't tell you what to do. I should be going now. You can find your way back to the café, then?"

He surely didn't mean to sound patronizing with that last bit, but in her current mood, Annette couldn't take it any other way. "I'll be fine," she insisted. Enjolras gave her an ironic smile, a smirk, really, then he turned and left.

As they hadn't gone far, Annette retraced her steps easily. A few minutes later, she let herself back in through the closed door of the café. Downstairs, it was dark and empty. Gavroche hadn't come back yet, but Eponine was waiting upstairs for her, lying back against one of the big pillows. Annette flung herself down besides her, and Eponine – despite her own preoccupations – one glance at her face told Annette that she'd been crying – Eponine looked over at her with concern. "Where've you been?" she asked after a moment.

"Out. Talking with _Comrade Vladimir Lenin_ there." She jerked her thumb in the direction of the street, though she knew Enjolras couldn't be anywhere near by this point.

"_Who?" _Eponine pulled herself up to a sitting position.

"Our fearless leader. Enjolras, of course."

"What did you just call him? Comrade …?"

"Vladimir Lenin. A revolutionary – between my time and yours. An ideological hardliner, which I suppose is what I meant when I called him that. Also a shrewd political strategist who knew how to win, something Enjolras could use to learn."

"I see," Eponine told her, though clearly she didn't. "I keep forgetting you're from the future." Then, "but, anyway, you're in a mood tonight."

"Sorry." Annette took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm herself. After a moment, she added, "You wanted to talk to me? Sorry I made you wait."

"It's not a problem." Eponine's voice was soft again, hesitant. Annette waited for her to continue, but when she didn't, resting a hand on Annette's shoulder instead, Annette decided to prompt her.

"It's about Marius, isn't it?"

Eponine nodded, and just as suddenly burst into tears. Annette quickly sat up, wrapping her arms around her friend. For a few seconds, Annette simply rocked her, stroking her hair as she sobbed, but finally, she spoke again.

"And you're in love with him yourself."

At this, Eponine abruptly drew back, her expression horrified. "Is it obvious?"

Annette frowned. Would she have known, if she hadn't read the novel? She'd never thought of herself as a particularly perceptive person. Still, Eponine's feelings were clear if you knew what to look for, and yet probably nobody in Eponine's world had bothered to do just that, least of all the object of her affections. This was the answer Annette gave her: "It isn't to Marius. You've loved him for a long time?"

Eponine heaved a sigh. "Ever since we met, probably. He never saw it, though … and now he's gone and fallen in love with _Cosette, _that girl I told you about. This is probably my punishment for being mean to her so many years ago, isn't it?"

Annette shook her head quickly. "Don't think like that, Eponine. Sometimes, boys are stupid. Often, life's not fair. But, it's not about you."

"He wants me to help him find out where she lives."

"Are you going to?"

"As it turns out I know. I have to tell him, don't I?"

"You're a good friend."

Eponine smiled ruefully now. "Aren't I?"

"Say," Annette began a few seconds later, a new idea slowly taking form in her mind. "Why do you love Marius so much? What's so great about him?"

Eponine, who had glanced down, studying her feet, looked back up towards Annette. "What do you mean?"

"Well, he's good looking, sure, and reasonably nice, but not any more so than some of his friends. You know them now; you've been spending evenings in the café with us. Marius isn't better looking or more charismatic than … Enjolras, say…"

"Marius has nicer hair," Eponine responded slowly. "But, honestly, Annette, love doesn't work that way. You can't ask me why I'm in love with him. I just am, and there isn't anything I can do about it. Haven't you ever been in love?"

Annette frowned, shaking her head at the same time, almost sheepish. Eponine had made a good point. Maybe Annette didn't know anything about how love worked. Still, she was rather taken with her new idea. Did Enjolras know himself so well, to worry that a woman's love would turn him from his single-minded devotion to his cause? Probably not. All the same, Enjolras might be quite interested in Eponine, and perhaps this would give him just enough pause to reconsider his suicidal timing and tactics. Maybe it wouldn't be real love, not at first, but he would appreciate the symbolic gesture of lifting a poor girl out of a life of misery. And Eponine, if this worked out – Eponine would finally be happy. At worse, Annette would be fostering false hopes in Eponine, but the girl had been living on false hope for some time now. Was there really anything to lose?

Annette almost laughed out loud at her train of thought. Since when did she know anything about matchmaking? All the same.., _Well, here goes…_

"Still, Eponine, what about Enjolras? He's nice-looking, isn't he? It's exciting when he gives speeches; he's got the soul of a poet, and he cares so much about poor people … about people less fortunate than him…"

"He also thinks that love is an unnecessary distraction."

"So he says now. Really, though, can any man truly resist the charms of a beautiful and determined woman?" Annette gave Eponine what she hoped was a convincingly wicked grin, and Eponine, despite her dark mood, actually giggled.

"It's not working with Marius, though," Eponine pointed out a moment later.

Annette was undeterred. "Eponine," she insisted, "just think of what it would be like if all of that passion Enjolras shows for his country, think of what it would be like to have all that showered on you, instead."

However Annette might have expected Eponine to respond, it was not as she did. The other girl fell silent; her eyes widened suddenly – she almost gasped. At first, Annette thought she had gotten through to her. Her fist began to clench in an unconscious gesture of triumph. At that moment, however, Eponine spoke up, and Annette realized she had completely misunderstood the other girl's reaction.

"I had no idea." Eponine more breathed these words than spoke them. "You could have just told me that you did understand exactly how I feel."

"Excuse me, wait, what?"

"In a way, I'm sorry that you understand, because loving someone who can't love you back is the worst feeling in the world. At the same time, I'm glad I'm not alone in this. Still, I'd never take Enjolras from you even if I could."

"Eponine, that's not what I meant, I …"

At this, however, the other girl abruptly stood up, gathering her light, wool shawl around herself. "Annette, do you mind if I go out for a bit? I just remembered there was something I needed to do. I'll be back later."

Annette nodded weakly. She couldn't imagine what Eponine would need to do at this hour of the night, but could well understand if the girl wanted to be alone with her thoughts for a bit. Still flabbergasted, her mind reeling, trying to catch up with what had just happened, she watched her friend as she headed down the stairs. There was a muffled "_bonsoir_" to whomever had come back to sit in the café. The door below then opened, then slammed shut.

For a moment, Annette stayed where she was upstairs, leaning back against her own pillow and running a hand absentmindedly through her hair. All her plans had been just so _especially_ successful tonight, hadn't they? She let out a groan. It turned out trying to change this story's ending was going to be more difficult than she'd thought.

A few seconds later, Annette stood up. Who was it who'd come back downstairs, anyway? She might as well head down to join them. Hopefully, somebody would be in the mood for idle chatter; it might take her mind off of the situation at hand.

She made her way to the stairs and looked down. It was Grantaire, alone; he was sitting in his customary seat. When he saw Annette he waved. She came down to sit by him.

"What a night!" he exclaimed.

"Tell me about it." Annette's tone was sarcastic.

"Romeo's found his Juliet and the rest of us are about to start a war, what more could you ask for?" His tone matched hers. Then, "something to drink?"

"Would be great." Annette hoped she wasn't developing bad habits.

"Wine? Or…"

"I don't suppose you have rum and coke around?"

Grantaire chuckled, getting the general idea if not exactly what she was asking for. "I do have brandy if you're looking for something stronger."

"Okay."

So, Grantaire pulled out a bottle and, finding a small cup on one of the shelves, poured a little bit into it and handed it to Annette.

"Do I drink it straight?"

"Bottoms up!"

Annette glanced at the glass with a moment's trepidation, before picking it up and draining it in one gulp. Almost instantly, she began coughing hard – it burned inside her mouth! Grantaire began laughing at her, and once she'd stopped coughing she began laughing, too.

"I think I'll stick to mixed drinks," Annette finally announced.

"We didn't toast."

"I'll get some water and we can toast."

There was some in a small pitcher on the other side of the table, so Annette refilled her glass from it. Grantaire poured himself some wine. They raised their glasses to each other.

"_Vive la r__évolution, _huh?"

"_Vive la r__évolution.__" _They met eyes, mock-serious, then Annette sighed. "He can't win if he starts now. Enjolras, I mean."

Grantaire nodded. "Have you told him?"

"I just told him so, outside, not an hour ago."

"Explicitly, I mean? You've been hinting as much since you got here, but he's not very good at subtle."

"He got the hints. He didn't believe me, though. I tried to explain there's a difference between a good cause and … good timing. But he's …"

"A true believer."

"Something like that. It just _has _to be now." Annette sighed again. "In other news, Eponine thinks I'm in love with Enjolras. Which I'm not …, in case that wasn't obvious or something."

Grantaire nodded slowly at this, then looked at Annette for a long moment, studying her. The girl bit her lip. She'd expected Grantaire to laugh at what she'd said, to tease her, maybe. To say something sarcastic about how ridiculous all of this was. But instead, he looked uncharacteristically pensive. "You know," he finally said, "I think if he did ever go for someone, it might be someone like you."

"What?" Annette nearly spat out her water. "No kidding, really? That's not even funny."

"I didn't mean it to be."

"How would you know a thing like that?" Annette stared at Grantaire, wide-eyed and horrified. Still, plain in his oddly vulnerable and unguarded gaze was a truth that she had never expected to see.

"You're in love with him yourself. Good Lord. I … didn't know you swung that way."

Grantaire managed a sheepish grin. "I don't exactly go shouting it from the rooftops or anything."

"Still, wow."

For another long moment, the two of them simply looked at each other, neither knowing what to say. Annette took a few deep breaths; Grantaire finished his glass. Finally, the young man asked her, "What's this all about for you, anyway? You want us to win and you think you know how we can?"

Annette shook her head quickly. "I don't know how. I just know this isn't how. I don't want people to die needlessly, not when they could … have great things ahead for them, … great accomplishments in store. You're all so young."

"Still, why do we matter so much to you? Much as I appreciate the concern … there's something more to it, isn't there? Something terrible happened in your time that you want to prevent. Am I wrong?"

"Well…" Annette began slowly, looking down at her empty glass. "I was too young to join the Resistance."

Grantaire nodded as if he understood, and maybe, once again, he had gotten the essential point.

Was this why she cared so much? The one cause didn't have much to do with the other. Even if Enjolras and his comrades did manage to win now, or if not now, in 1848 or 1871, they'd all be long gone by 1940, and there was no telling that any state they'd manage to found now would be able to hold out then. Still, was this, for Annette, at heart, about – by proxy – joining the fight she'd missed long ago … in the future?

"What about you, though? You don't believe he'll win, either. Why are you here? Is it because of the way you feel about him?"

Annette bit her lip waiting for his response, nervous that she'd gone to far. But Grantaire, after a moment's thoughtful silence and with a rueful smile, answered her question.

"I suppose that's part of it. I admire him. I, too, wish he could win. Wish the world worked like that. I don't believe it's possible, though … just like … well, anything between us wouldn't be possible. Still, I'm with him all the way, and if that means, in the end, nothing more than dying side by side … that's that … so be it."

Annette frowned. She was moved, but also somewhat troubled. It all seemed so drastic! _Welcome to the 19__th__ century, where people really are so miserable in love that they go off to war to end their own unbearable existence. Still, I don't know about Hugo, but Tolstoy for sure never wrote it like this!_

At length, Annette sighed, shaking her head. "The world's gone insane."

French terms in this chapter:

_Sauvons-nous de nos propres mains! = By our own hands shall we be saved _

_le fou qui vit dans les bois = the crazy man who lives in the woods_

_Le Grand = the Great_

_Vive la révolution = long live the revolution_

The story that Annette tells Enjolras about the Resistance is true. Look up Georges Guingouin on Wikipedia if you want more information (available in English or in French), or, even better, if you read French, read Michel Taubmann's "L'affaire Guingouin, la véritable histoire du premier maquisard de France."


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